I don’t notice Paul until he’s leaning right over my shoulder, staring at the screen of my laptop. I let out a yelp of surprise and almost jump out of the seat of my chair. It rolls backwards a few inches, right over Paul’s foot.

“Fuck!” he swears, hopping away as he clutches his casualty and gives me a dirty look.

“Oh, turds! I’m sorry!” I gush. “You scared me! Are you okay?”

The grimace slips off his face, replaced by an easy laugh.

“I’m fine. I’ll just have to watch myself now that we have actual office chairs.”

“And desks!” I add.

I don’t have to do my work at Metro Records from on top of a cardboard box anymore; a load of furniture got delivered yesterday morning. The whole staff pitched in to get everything set up. Technically I had a lecture then, but I didn’t want to seem like I was skipping out. Plus, now that I have the awesomeness of my graphic design job to compare it to, hauling my ass to endless sociology seminars seems extra painful. I’m behind on about six different school assignments, but I keep working on Metro stuff, even when I know I should be studying.

“What’s that you’re working on?” Paul asks, settling into his own chair as he continues rubbing his foot.

I glance at the open Illustrator file. “It’s, uh, a commission. Some cover art for an EP. Don’t tell Shayla I was working on a side project while on the job.”

He makes a zipper motion over his lips before firing up his computer.

I’ve started about a dozen different designs for the EP cover, but none of them have felt quite right. It’s difficult to really nail it when I haven’t actually heard the songs by JP’s ‘friend’ yet. I guessed that the artwork was really for him pretty much the first time he told me about the music. I think he knows I’m in on the secret, but neither of us have admitted to it yet. It’s kind of like an inside joke we refuse to let go of.

We have a lot of those now: inside jokes. It’s been a few weeks since that night we watched Ironman, and his spontaneous protein bar ‘sampling sessions’ have led to a couple more movie nights. Sometimes I still have these moments where I realize that not only am I hanging out with a guy, I’m hanging out with a guy in Sherbrooke Motherfluffing Station, and I start to forget how to breathe, but mostly things just feel easy with him. They feel nice.

And utterly, painfully unbearable.

Who am I kidding? There’s a wild, raging, hormonal Molly inside me that constantly wants to jump his bones. Even Tumblr GIFs don’t compare to the toe-curling, thigh-clenching tension that coils in me every time we sit on my bed. I’ve accepted the fact that I’m attracted to him.

Accepting the fact that he’s still ten-thousand times out of my league has been harder, but I’m not letting myself forget it. Those moments when his skin brushes mine and sends me flying higher than I ever have before are just an indication of how far I’d inevitably end up falling. They clearly don’t have the same effect on him; he seems fine to keep our friendship where it is. He asks me about Paul and listens to me talk about the dates we go on, never showing any sign that the idea bothers him.

Things with Paul have been...‘stagnant’ is the word that comes to mind. In a wildly un-Molly-like move, I asked him out the day after I lied and told JP we already had a date. There just didn’t seem to be a reason not to make it true. Paul is...okay. Going out with him feels okay.

We get coffee before work and sometimes have drinks after. We try new restaurants together, and we even went to go see a band we both like. The whole office knows we’re involved, and while we keep repeating that it’s only casual, I catch at least one co-worker making a heart frame around us with their hands every time Paul visits me at my desk.

Sometimes he’ll come to my apartment after our dates. We have made out on the couch a few times, but I always put a stop to things whenever we get that far. The truth is that sex still makes me nervous. I’ve only done it a handful of times, and just the thought of leading Paul into my bedroom makes me want to curl up into a ball in the corner.

I try not to think about what it means that I’ve invited JP to my room several times already and barely hesitated at the door.

“Hey, lovebirds.”

I look up to find Dario, the head of distribution, grinning at Paul and I from the other side of our desks. He’s a big grizzly bear of a guy with even more tattoos on his arms than JP. He used to terrify me, but I’ve been here long enough now to know he’s a secret softie.

“I’ve come to tell you that the office has voted, and we will officially fire the both of you if you show up to the Halloween party next week in a couple’s costume. You guys are sickeningly cute as it is.”

“Can I wear a couple’s costume with you, Dario?” I reply. “I could be Sid, and you could be Nancy.”

A month ago, I would never have dared even speak to Dario, never mind joke around with him, but this place has brought something out in me, something I lost so long ago I forgot what it felt like to have it.

“I like the way you think, Myers, but Patrick and I already have an epic costume plan put together.”

The rule is that everyone has to wear a music-related costume to the party, and most of the staff has been plotting for weeks.

Dario goes back to his corner after that, and Paul turns to face me. “Are we going to do a couple’s costume?”

I laugh. “We’re not even a couple.”

Paul doesn’t join in. “We could be.” He wheels his chair closer. “I think we could be something real, Molly. The whole office already thinks we are.”

I stare down at my hands in my lap. “We said we’d take it slow. We agreed it wasn’t serious...”

“Come to my place tonight.” He covers my knee with his hand. “I’ll show you how serious this can be.”

It’s a really bad line. I have to keep myself from snorting.

“I don’t know. I have a lot of school stuff going on tomorrow.”

He sighs. “You haven’t even seen my apartment, Molly. I just want to show you what things could be like, if we tried this.”

I bite my lip and hesitate before shaking my head. “Not tonight.”

He sighs and gives my knee a squeeze. “Okay. Not tonight.”

Halloween is on a Friday this year, which means the entire city of Montreal is practically vibrating with a throw-your-head-back-and-howl-at-the-moon excitement long before the sun sets. My afternoon lectures at McGill were almost empty; half the student body probably started drinking before noon today. I wasn’t on the schedule at Metro Records, but I’m pretty sure next to no work got done there either.

When Montreal parties, Montreal parties hard.

Not that I’d know. I’ve spent all my Halloweens here so far texting Justine while she went to a house party in Kingston. Listening to my ‘Get This Party Started’ playlist with Stéphanie while we do our makeup in the bathroom is a big step up.

“This is fun!” she exclaims, tilting her head to check her eyeliner. “I wish we had more roomie bonding time.”

I pop the top off the only lipstick I own. “This is fun. Sorry I’ve been, you know, really awkward for the past...year.”

Stéphanie gives me a sympathetic look, and I blush. I’m still pretty awkward now.

“I didn’t mean it like that, Molly,” she assures me. “I’ve always wished we were closer. It’s just hard, with me working in the evenings and you out at school during the days.”

I nod. “Is the studio closed tonight, or did you book it off for the party?”

All the bands on the label have been invited. At the moment there are only four of them, and Sherbrooke Station is by far the most famous. Still, we’re getting busier every day.

“It’s closed. Most of the kids are busy trick-or-treating. You should have seen my beginner ballet class yesterday, though. They’re only seven, and a bunch of them wore their costumes. It was adorable.”

I pause my lipstick application to smile. “That does sound cute.”

“Speaking of cute”—Stéphanie hip bumps me—“that costume looks amazing on you.”

I’m wearing a pair of purple-striped tube socks over shimmery black leggings and some old, beaten-up Keds. I’ve got a distressed Iron Maiden t-shirt on, and a nametag that says ‘Noelle.’ If anyone is going to get the reference to ‘Teenage Dirtbag,’ it’s a room full of musicians and record company employees.

Most of Stéphanie’s costume is sitting in the living room right now, but it’s going to be hilarious once she puts the whole thing together. She’s wearing the same flowy, grey tank-dress she did for her role as a dancer in Sherbrooke Station’s ‘Nevermore’ music video. I helped her make a big frame out of a piece of cardboard and painted it to look like the video’s YouTube page. When she walks around holding it up in that dress, she’ll look like she is the music video.

Stéphanie puts a final coat of mascara on and then glances at her phone on the bathroom counter. “Zute. We should hurry. Ace will be here in about ten minutes.”

Yes, that’s right. I’m being escorted to a Halloween party by Ace Turner.

“He goes as Slash every year,” Stéphanie tells me. “We’ve only had one Halloween together, but Matt told me he’s been wearing the same costume since they were freshmen at McGill. He just wears his normal jeans and leather jacket, then does the whole top hat and curly wig thing.”

I know in that moment the Sherbrooke Station fangirl in me will never truly die, because the thought of Ace Turner in a top hat does things to my ovaries.

We find Ace waiting outside our building, after a long and awkward effort to get Stéphanie’s costume down the ridiculously narrow stairs, and sure enough, he’s standing there dressed in dark skinny jeans and a leather jacket. He’s paired his velvet top hat with reflective aviators that bring out the strong lines of his jaw. He even makes the long, curly wig look sexy, for god’s sake. He tips his sunglasses down to eye us over their rim, and I don’t know how the government hasn’t abducted him already to put him to use as a weapon of mass sexual destruction.

“Looking good, ladies. Let me see what that says, Stéphanie.”

She holds her YouTube frame in front of her and does a dance pose behind it. Ace throws his head back in laughter as soon as he gets the joke.

“Fucking hell, I love you.”

He leans through the frame to cup her cheek and give her a quick kiss. I rip my gaze away to keep from staring.

“Hmm. Let me think about this.” When I turn back, Ace is looking me up and down with his arms crossed. “Iron Maiden...Oh! ‘Teenage Dirtbag.’ Shit, that’s clever.”

“Yeah, unlike you,” Stéphanie teases. “Slash again?”

He starts leading us over to a waiting car. “Whatever. It works.”

Stéphanie and I share the back seat while Ace sits beside the driver. We take off towards Hochelaga. The party is happening at the Metro Records office.

“Your date couldn’t pick you up?” Stéphanie asks me, as we pass by sidewalks flooded with devils and witches.

Paul and I are going to the party ‘together.’ We’d both be going anyway, but he made a point of asking to be my date. I thought things were cooling off between us; we haven’t seen each other outside work since I turned down the offer to visit his apartment. When he plopped a coffee down on my desk yesterday and asked what time he should pick me up, it took me a minute to realize what he was talking about.

He bailed on picking me up half an hour ago.

“He’s pre-ing with some friends and might be late for the party,” I explain. “He told me he didn’t want to make me late too, and that I should just go ahead.”

I think that’s what his texts meant. There were more than a few typos.

Stéphanie raises her eyebrows.

“It’s fine,” I say breezily. “He’s not my—like, my boyfriend, or anything. We don’t need to make an entrance.”

We’re showing up fashionably late to the party ourselves. The renovations are almost complete, and all the office furniture has been pushed up against the walls to clear a dance floor. There are fake cobwebs stretched across the ceiling, and someone even replaced a few of the light bulbs with black lights, giving the place a creepy glow.

Everyone pitched in to fund the open bar—which is less of a bar and more a huge pile of beer cases—so with the drinks already flowing, people have begun to bust a move, writhing around to indie pop anthems in their music-themed costumes. I spot the whole marketing team dressed up as the girls from Justin Bieber’s ‘Sorry’ video, and catch sight of Shayla and her girlfriend dressed respectively as Wayne and Garth from Wayne’s World.

“Over here!”

The three of us turn to find Matt Pearson waving from the other side of the room. I trail behind Ace and Stéphanie, not really sure if the invitation is meant for me too.

Matt is standing with his girlfriend, Kay, who’s whispering something to the girl I now recognize as Roxanne. Cole Byrne is slouched against the wall next to them.

I don’t think I’ll ever be able to stop referring to them by their full names. It’s like trying to call Ed Sheeran just Ed or something. I scan the room for JP, but he’s nowhere in sight.

“What the fuck are you supposed to be?” Ace asks Matt.

He’s wearing a sock monkey hat, a parka, ski gloves, and a thick scarf.

“Arctic Monkeys!” I blurt. “Good one.”

I can feel myself going red when I realize I’ve spoken out loud, but Matt grins and claps me on the shoulder.

“Finally! Someone I don’t to have to explain it to.”

Everyone takes a turn having their costume admired. Matt guesses mine as quickly as I guessed his. The group grumbles about Ace going as Slash again, and claps when Roxanne and Kay spin around to show off their matching outfits. They’re wearing trench coats over tight miniskirts, with name tags that have the word Kitty crossed out and replaced with Karen: ‘Short Skirt/Long Jacket’ by Cake.

Cole is wearing his normal street clothes, aside from a kid-sized toy bass strung around his neck. It has a piece of paper taped to it with nothing but ‘x2’ written in black marker.

“And you?” Ace asks him. “You’re...What the hell are you, Cole?”

His face remains as stoic as ever when his deep voice rumbles out. “I’m a double bass.”

There’s a split second of silence before we all nearly kill ourselves laughing. It would be a lame costume on anyone else, but his deadpan delivery makes it hilarious.

“Where’s JP?” Stéphanie asks, voicing the question that’s been on my mind since we walked through the door.

“In the storage room,” Matt answers. “He’s being a little bitch about getting his costume just right. You know he goes all out for Halloween. I should probably go check on him. He told me it involves fire, and knowing him, he probably meant actual flames.”

He leaves to navigate his way across the dance floor, and I spot Dario flagging me down from beside the beer pile.

“I should probably say hi to my coworkers,” I tell the group.

They wave me off, and I mentally congratulate myself on having a not morbidly embarrassing conversation with most of the members of Sherbrooke Station.

“Noelle!” Dario shouts over the music, once I’ve joined him. “That’s choice!”

“And what are you supposed to be?”

He’s wearing a Dracula cape, fake fangs, and a t-shirt that has the word ‘Saturday’ printed across it.

“It only makes sense if you see Patrick too,” he explains, and then cups his hands over his mouth to shout, “Patrick! Get the fuck over here!”

Patrick shuffles his way off the dance floor and shows up wearing the same thing, only his t-shirt says ‘Sunday.’ I think for a moment, and then it hits me.

“Vampire Weekend!” I shake my head, laughing. “God, we’re all such nerds.”

Patrick puts his hands on his hips, pretending to be offended. “I think we’re pretty fucking witty.”

“You want a beer?” Dario asks me.

I’m not much of a drinker, but I indulge on occasion, and this is a Halloween party. I nod. Dario hands me a can of Coors.

“Hey look, it’s your little lovebird!” he exclaims, just as I’m taking my first sip.

I swallow the bitter liquid down and turn to see Paul walking through the front door—although stumbling would be a more accurate term. He’s still several feet away and I can tell he’s drunk. He’s got that whole squinty-eyed stare going on. He turns it on me and breaks out into a lopsided smile.

“Molly!” he shouts, coming over to join us. “Hey, Molly! Sorry I’m late.”

“It’s okay.” I smirk at him. “You look like you were enjoying yourself.”

“Yeah, got a little carried away with the guys. Your costume looks good.”

He scans me over, but I’m not sure if he actually gets the joke. His own outfit is more obvious. He’s wearing a shimmery, 1970s style shirt with a smudged Ziggy Stardust lightning bolt painted on his face.

“And you’re already drinking!” he exclaims. “Let’s get this party started, eh? You mind if I grab one of those?”

He nods at Dario, who’s leaning against the stacks of beer cases.

Dario narrows his eyes. “Why don’t you lovebirds go dance for a bit? You don’t want to miss ‘Zombie’ do you?”

The Cranberries are blasting on the speakers. I take Dario’s hint and lead Paul away from the beer. The second we’re on the dance floor, his hand slides down to rest at the top of my ass.

“You really do look good,” he whispers next to my ear, his breath hot on my neck. “I’ve been thinking about you all night.”

I pull away a few inches.

“You sure that’s not the beer talking?” I joke.

He just moves his hand a fraction lower. “I think we’re gonna have fun tonight.”

The smell of beer on his breath sticks in my nose. The ‘Sorry’ girls are beside us now, screaming out the lyrics like their lives depend on it, and I jump on the distraction. I twist in Paul’s grip and join in with them, putting some distance between the two of us as we get swallowed up by the group.

I decide that even with an inebriated Paul to handle, I am going to have fun tonight. I’m going to dance and sing and drink beer with my friends, and nothing is going to ruin it for me.